


Free Fall

by damerons (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: The Promise (2016 George)
Genre: (not between Mikael and Reader), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Non-Graphic Violence, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/damerons
Summary: You and Mikael have both upheld this boundary since you met: you have not invited him to your place. He hasn’t invited you to his. It’s made things easier. Safer, particularly as it became clearer that he… That you…
Relationships: Mikael Boghosian/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Free Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was very clearly inspired by That Scene in _The Promise_ , but I modernized it and changed some stuff around. Got carried away with the world-building because I Am Who I Am.

Mikael hasn’t said a word about the concert since the lights came up. You’d risen from your seats and cleared out of the small hall with the rest of the crowd, and when you emerged out onto the cold January street, the strangers around you were abuzz with conversation, but neither of you could bring yourselves to speak.

“That was kind of awful, wasn’t it,” you offer at last.

“Oh, thank _God_ you said something,” he exclaims. Relief floods his expression, and he settles a hand on your arm good-naturedly. Your breath catches in your throat just slightly at the touch, even over your winter coat as it is—but he’s still going. “I didn’t understand it at all. Did you hear that woman next to me, who raved about how emotional it made her?”

You let out a giggle. “No, I didn’t. She can’t have been serious?” Part of you feels self-conscious for talking this way. You know that new music can be a challenging genre for people to understand and appreciate, but when your co-worker offered you the tickets, you wanted to invite Mikael immediately. _He_ would appreciate it; you were convinced.

But you hadn’t really accounted for the possibility that there might not be much about this particular concert to appreciate.

“Does a craving for a nap count as an emotion?” he wonders aloud.

“Oh, you’re horrible,” you breathe, even as you swat him good-naturedly against his stomach. “Now you’re never going to trust my invitations again.”

Mikael hums thoughtfully. You’re standing at a stoplight together and are almost certainly lingering too close together, even if you’re both facing toward the street. If you had sense, you’d use the excuse of pressing the button for the crosswalk, and you’d reposition yourself at a safer distance. “Perhaps I’ll just implement a three-strike policy.”

“What happens if I strike out?”

“Easy.” He looks down at you at the same moment that you look up at him. You haven’t repositioned yourself and suddenly you definitively do not want to. “You’re dead to me.”

An easy smile spreads across your features, and you nod sagely. “Seems reasonable.”

The light changes, and you walk, and you remain huddled close. Against the cold, you tell yourself. It’s against the cold.

You’ve nearly reached your apartment when you hear it—grunts and groans, hits and shouts down a nearby alley. From the sidewalk, you can just barely make it out: two men have another man pressed against a wall, swapping hits while they shout at him. They’re too far away to hear much, but you just barely make out a slur, and your heart stutters.

“Mikael—” you whisper.

Whatever you were going to say – and you don’t think you know yourself what that was – the words die on your lips when Mikael rushes down the alley and knocks into the men, causing a domino effect that sends all four men to the ground.

You feel at once that you should have seen it coming, in the same way that you probably should have seen that horrible concert coming the moment that your co-worker wanted to pass off those tickets for free. But you let out a gasp anyway as you rush closer.

Mikael’s punching away at one of the men, and the other still lies on the ground, seemingly disoriented by the intrusion. The one whom they’d been beating – barely more than a boy, you realize as you get a better look at him – stumbles to his feet. He looks between Mikael and you, gives you little more than a shaky smile of gratitude before he’s off running.

It’s because you’re watching him flee that you miss it. The other attacker has staggered to his feet, and he grabs Mikael off of his friend, striking him back. It seems that Mikael got enough blows in that the one he’d been hitting isn’t about to join in the fight, but the one who’s hitting him now doesn’t seem particularly interested in relenting anytime soon.

Before you quite know what you’re doing, you rush in and kick the stranger in the gut. Hard.

He groans, falling backward again. From the way that he stares up at you, you have no doubt that he’s fucking mad that he’s been hurt by a woman. But you have no interest in giving him time to think about it. “Come on, Mikael,” you gasp, fumbling blindly for his hand until it slots into yours.

You pull him to his feet and you’re off and running, still clutching Mikael’s hand.

Mikael slows to a stop once you’ve put about a block between yourselves and the alley. He doubles over breathlessly, smoothing a hand over his hair. It displaces the carefully product-laden locks, but there’s not much he can do about that at this point; his curls had already been strewn about by the aggressive blows to his face.

You swallow hard as you really take in the damage for the first time, particularly the bloodied gash on his forehead and his unkempt hair and clothes. In the months that you’ve known Mikael, he has _never_ looked out of sorts, but he jumped in _immediately_ when he saw that stranger in trouble, with no concern for the possible consequences. The stranger didn’t even wait to thank him. You cross your arms over your chest. “You should let me clean you up, I don’t want you taking the train home like that.”

He rises slowly back to his full height, looking at you hesitantly.

Neither of you can quite voice the question that’s on his mind: if he follows you upstairs, will there be anyone else there?

Frankly, there’s a dozen things that you’re frightened to say aloud. That there’s been no one there more and more. That you’re surprised, at this point, when you get home from work to an unpacked suitcase and another person in your bed.

Instead of giving an answer, you tell him, “I think my cat would really like you.” And it seems like that’s enough. Slowly, you wind your arm through his, and you begin to guide him toward your apartment again.

“Did you seriously kick that guy?” Mikael asks as you walk.

“I think so,” you say. You giggle at the thought, and Mikael clutches you a little tighter.

The walk up the stairs is slow, because Mikael is still winded. But finally, you reach your door, and you unlock it slowly, helping him through the vestibule and onto your couch. “I’m going to grab my first aid kit and boil some water for tea.”

His hand falls from yours belatedly as you leave him, and your stomach twists—you hadn’t even realized that you were still holding onto him.

A few minutes pass as you burrow through your toiletries and putter in the kitchen, filling and starting up the electric kettle. A few minutes for you to think over the fact that you and Mikael have both upheld this boundary since you met: you have not invited him to your place. He hasn’t invited you to his. It’s made things easier. Safer, particularly as it became clearer that he… That you…

You don’t regret inviting him up now. But you can’t shake the feeling that you’re now standing at a precipice.

Even more unnervingly, you can’t shake the feeling that you might have already _been_ at a precipice. That, by deciding to invite him in, you have already dropped.

Mikael’s discarded his coat when you return, so that he can examine his chest, where he’d also sustained quite a few punches. He’s unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt to do so, and you inhale slowly, carefully, trying not to look too close. He’s not bleeding there, thank God – you know he’s wearing one of his favorite shirts, and you’d hate to think of his blood ruining it – but you’ve no doubt that a few ugly bruises are going to sprout across his skin.

His skin that looks incredibly soft and warm to the touch.

But when he looks up at you, your gaze is on his face, taking in the damage in the dim light of the nearby lamp.

“C’mon, don’t tell me I look that bad,” he says, reacting to something that you certainly were not meaning to telegraph in your expression.

“You don’t look that bad,” you murmur. You hold up the damp wash cloth that you retrieved from the kitchen. “Let me clean you up so that I can get a look at the extent of the cuts, though.”

Slowly, carefully, you rinse the blood away.

It is even clearer, now, that something is hanging over you. Because neither of you have articulated the obvious—that surely Mikael, the literal fucking doctor, would be able to fix himself up better than you could. All you really need to do is lead him to the bathroom. If you had any sense, you would lead him to the bathroom.

But he looks up at you with soft eyes and your heart feels caught in your throat, and you rinse the blood away.

You discard the bloodied wash cloth in a spare bowl, and you tilt his head up slightly with both hands so that you can take in the damage. Your thumbs tremble against him as one of them brushes over his forehead and through his hair.

And it should not be surprise—it really should not be a fucking surprise when his eyelids ease closed and his head falls against your stomach, settling there softly. It should not be a surprise when his arms wind around your waist and hold you there, before him.

No. It’s not a surprise. You are dropping from a precipice and it is not a surprise.

That doesn’t mean that you remember how to breathe. You stand still as a statue and ache over the fact that the man before you got beaten up just to protect a stranger. He sat through an abysmal concert for you. He makes you laugh like you never thought possible, he fills you with an easy warmth that you can hardly believe.

“Mikael…” you whisper.

When he tilts his head up to peer at you, you feel certain that your next words are going to be about how you should finish cleaning him up and then send him home. Perhaps you’re dropping from a precipice, but you still have time; you can grab hold of a wall and stop before the free fall.

There is a question in Mikael’s eyes – _the_ question, you know what the fucking question is – but he will relent immediately if you tell him to.

“I’m glad that I’m home alone tonight,” you tell him instead.

He exhales your name like a prayer as what remains of his inhibitions crumble. His hands slide over your waist, your hips, one of them trailing down the fabric of your skirt until the pads of his fingers meet the skin of your bare leg, just above the knee.

Gaze holding yours as his fingers slowly tuck under the skirt and begin to trace up your thigh.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he whispers. His fingers are tracing slow circles over your inner thigh and you feel certain that it should not already be so sexual, so meaningful, but he’s blinking up at you with dark eyes and such certainty. “I stayed awake at that damn concert by thinking about your beautiful legs. About touching you while we sat in the dark together.”

You inhale sharply at the thought. “I wish you had,” you breathe. You wish he’d touch you now, but part of you is terrified, too—if his touch already has you squirming like this, you’re not quite sure what you’ll do once his fingers stray further.

“Do you?” Mikael smiles softly. Even with his flirtatious tone, the way that his joy lights up his face is… so remarkably innocent and genuine. The way he wants you is so genuine.

His thumb finds your panties, then. Strokes over the damp fabric as he leans in and presses a kiss to your stomach. Your fingers have found his hair and curled into them, and you let out a low sigh when he whispers, “You’re already wet for me.”

You hum low and admit something aloud that terrifies you. “I liked seeing you stop those men.”

“Did you?” His thumb presses against your clit through our panties and traces gentle circles over it, making your breath catch. “You liked seeing me protecting someone?”

“Mhm.” Quieter as his fingers curl around the fabric and start pulling the panties down your legs. “Liked you hurting those assholes.”

Mikael lets your panties fall, and you step out of them, kicking them away while he asks, “And what about me? Did it turn you on to see me get hurt? To clean me up?”

You swallow. His fingers are dancing over your thigh again. “Did it turn you on?”

“Yes.” And then you feel him, cold and trembling as his fingers tease their way between your legs and feel your heat. It doesn’t seem like he’s interested in finger-fucking you, not yet at least—the tips of his fingers stroke over your lips, and you see it in the way that his eyes fall shut, how he revels in this. In touching you like you know he’s wanted to—like you’ve wanted him to.

The spell breaks, and Mikael teases his fingers at your entrance for a heart-stopping moment before pressing slowly into your core.

You’d known exactly what was coming, of course you knew, but it draws a gasp out of you anyway, and you clutch his hair tighter. “Fuck.”

“Maybe I should make you come just like this,” he says softly, holding your gaze as he eases his fingers out of your pussy slowly, then back in again. “Would you like that? If I fucked you with my fingers until your legs gave out right here.”

Oh, you would, you really fucking would, and already, you’re starting to move your hips with his steady strokes, trying to match his rhythm. “Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

You’ve tried to ignore this for so long that, now that you’ve given in, you want everything from him. Every fucking thing that he’ll give.

“Good,” Mikael whispers. “Wanna see that so fucking bad.”

You whimper softly at his words, at his fingers curling into you—long and just a little bit rough and still just a little bit cold from your time outside. “Fuck, if you’d done this at the concert tonight.”

“Bet you would have sat so still for me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your stomach at the same moment that you ground against the heel of his hand _hard_. “Still and quiet while I made you come. Am I right, sweetheart?”

“Maybe I should have been loud,” you whisper. “Make it more of a show.”

He lets out a strangled laugh, and now he’s the one pressing the heel of his hand to your clit, making you moan. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it together if you’re loud.”

You pull his hair tight, desire churning in your gut at the way his eyes widen as you smirk. Even as you slowly rock your hips against his hand, you reply, “You don’t have to hold it together, if you don’t want. I could ride you right here.”

“Christ.” Mikael clears his throat. With his free hand, he fumbles at your skirt, pushing it higher up your waist. “Are you sure? We can still come back from this.”

“I don’t think we can.” His thumb presses over your clit, begins to move in steady circles along with his fingers, and you moan as you buck against him. “I don’t want to come back from this, Mikael.”

For the briefest moment, disbelief seems to cross his face. Disbelief that you want this, him.

“I’d like to taste you, first,” he breathes.

You whimper at the very thought, at the desire in his eyes when he lifts your skirt higher and leans in to replace his thumb with his mouth.

The moment his tongue swipes over your clit, you let out a breathless gasp, pulling him closer. “ _Fuck_ , Mikael, that’s—” You ease your eyes shut, tilting your head back and reveling in the tenderness of each stroke of his fingers, each gentle swipe of his tongue that brings you closer to ecstasy. It occurs to you absently that you still haven’t even kissed him, that you’ve barely even touched him, but the _very_ first thing he wanted to do once you told him you wanted this was make you come.

Watch you unravel from his fingers and tongue alone.

And _fuck_ if that doesn’t get to you, make you even wetter when you wouldn’t have thought that possible. You ride his fingers and tongue with a desperation that terrifies you, determined to give Mikael exactly what he wants and fall apart right in front of him.

“ _Oh_ ,” you gasp abruptly when Mikael suddenly changes tactics and sucks on your clit, hard, at the precise moment that he eases his fingers almost completely from your cunt and adds another digit, filling you.

Your heart stutters and you buck against him again, more urgent now. Somehow, through breathless moans and whimpers, you summon the energy to breathe, “Faster, please,” and Mikael adjusts immediately, matching the pace of your hips with his tongue and his fingers both until you start to see stars. You quiver and your legs tremble and Mikael clutches your waist tight with one hand, then with the other—you’re briefly desperate with the empty feeling that he’s left behind, but then his tongue is tracing along your cunt, tasting how eager you are for him, and it’s enough that your orgasm overtakes you with a keening moan.

If this is a free fall, it is exactly what you fucking want.

It’s after your climax begins to subside that Mikael slowly, gently presses a kiss to your thigh before lowering you into his lap. You blink at him, taking in his affectionate gaze when you shift a hand to smooth over his cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he breathes back. He looks dazed, and you can’t really blame him. Everything about this feels deeply surreal.

So you lean in and kiss him, hoping that the reality of it will hit. You lick your own cum off his lip, making him groan eagerly into your mouth and pull you closer until you’re pressed close and you’re settled over his cock, desperately hard in his pants. (Pants that you are probably ruining as you sit over them, but Mikael doesn’t seem bothered, so neither are you.)

“What was that I said about riding you?” you whisper. Your hands have already found his belt buckle.

“I don’t wanna stop kissing you,” Mikael breathes back. It's not a _no_ , it's an _and_. He wants you to ride him and he doesn't want to stop kissing you. “I don't wanna fucking stop.”

Your stomach flips. "Please don't. Don't ever stop."


End file.
